


Thank You (For This)

by kaneklutz



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, No beta we die like archival assistants, There's not really much comfort, season three spoilers, some dialogue from MAG 119, suicide ideation, they're both just hurting a lot, tim's not a bad person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaneklutz/pseuds/kaneklutz
Summary: "I care-""Don't you dare say that, not to me."-Two people who are hurting, and have been for a long time, shatter together.
Relationships: (sort of) - Relationship, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	Thank You (For This)

**Author's Note:**

> The Magnus Archives already has enough angst, but obviously I'm here to give you more. CW for suicide ideation 
> 
> (Don't really remember if any of this fully lines up canonically, if something's horribly wrong somebody please let me know, this was written feverishly while insomnia was gripping my poor broken mind)
> 
> (Additionally, please donate and sign petitions for the BLM movement, trans rights are human rights, ACAB and fuck JKR. Because all of that really matters, and we all need to do what we can for the world that we live in)
> 
> https://blacklivesmatter.com/

"Tim." 

The Archivist calls out from behind him, as Tim Stoker swings open the back door of the institute, walking out into the alley. There is no trace of patience or sympathy in his voice. 

He says the name with irritation. With an acidity that melts away any of Tim's last reserves of self control. The familiarly righteous, patronizing edge to his tone makes Tim want to scream, and strange the Archivist, and beat him to the edge of life then bring him back to do it all over again. A vile urge to draw horrible, horrible pain almost makes him retch, and he clenches shaking fists as he walks. 

"What?"

He wants to say more, to snap and challenge, but the word is left floating lonely in the air between them. In the tense silence after he speaks, where it seems as if the proud, all knowing, _powerful_ Archivist regrets his tone, regrets the sharpness he used when saying Tim's name. It doesn't last. 

"I don't...think you should come after all." 

Right. Of course that was it. Because now, at last, the Archivist had finally started caring about his crew. When Martin had been living in fear and the tattered remnants of stepped-on feelings, and Tim was soulless and hysterical and so tired, always looking for a fight to prove that he was still real, that there was still a point in being alive. 

When Sasha, sweet, wonderful Sasha was dead. Tim couldn't even remember the real her, and the one polaroid picture they'd taken together, on a New Years Eve that seemed like it had been decades ago, showed him with a smiling woman that he simply could not recognize.

Now, when it was too late. Now, the Archivist shows concern. 

"Tough, boss," Tim replies. The nickname stings sour and poisonous on his tongue, a reminder of good times and affection, friendship and witty banter. All of it, now withered away, leaving nothing but agonizing hatred, and utter exhaustion. 

The Archivist's mouth twists, as if swallowing something unpleasant. "Please. I know what I said before, but we both know that this-this trip is going to be dangerous, and I cannot afford to-" 

He cuts himself off, ending instead with, "I don't believe you're in a right state of mind to make it through this safely."

A harsh, ugly laugh explodes into the air, before Tim even knows why he's laughing. It fills him, expands him, ugly and foul. Laughter that was once for better times and people, now twisted into a cry for help, for war, for blood. 

It morphs into a violent hacking cough, and he chokes for a moment, regaining his composure only when the Archivist's expression displays a hint of worry that Tim so desperately wants to rip the man to shreds for. He doesn't deserve anyone's concern, and the Archivist doesn't deserve to feel _anything_ towards Tim. 

"What, because you suddenly know whether or not I'm 'in a right state of mind'? Like you suddenly started giving a single shit about the people who trusted you, your friends who would've died for you? Who _did_ die for you?"

He laughs again, a grim, painful noise closer to a sob of anguish than anything resembling glee. 

"I have always cared about you, and Martin, and- and Sasha," the Archivist responds lowly, in a measured, cracking voice that makes Tim want to punch him all the more. How dare he be calm? How dare he be cool and collected when Tim wants to rage, and howl in agony, and claw away at his own wretched skin until nothing remains. 

"Yeah? Got a funny way of showing it, stalking us. What's next, kidnapping Martin because you were worried for his safety? Ripping off my legs so that I can't walk into any danger?" He snorts, despite himself. "Can't do anything about Sasha anymore, can you, because you were so damn useless that you couldn't see that she was _dead_ , and nobody noticed, and her worst fear was to be forgotten by everyone who loved her, so now you try and protect me."

Protect Tim _fucking_ Stoker, as though he deserves to be cared for and kept alive. As though he even matters anymore, as though anything matters but the metallic, bloody taste of revenge and the price of an eye for an eye. 

The archivist does not respond. He stands there, cast in shadows and streetlight, looking disgustingly noble, and more sad than he deserves. In truth, Tim can see clearly how the years have treated him. He can count the circular, shining scars that they both share, could reach out and run his fingers through streaks of grey traced through the Archivist's dark hair, bury himself in the bruise-dark shadows under his eyes. Tim tries so hard to not give a damn, but he sees it all the same. 

He ignores the squeeze of his heart at seeing how broken the one he'd once called his friend looks now, and calls upon that comforting rage. The tightness in his chest is not concern, merely an aching fury at seeing the face of someone who was as good as responsible for the murder of their friend. 

"Stay the fuck out of this. You don't get to choose whether I go or not. I don't give a flying _fuck_ whether you care about me, I don't give a fuck about myself or-" He nearly stops himself, but barrels on regardless of the consequences, as he always does. "I don't give a fuck whether I make it out alive."

"I care-"

The two words send Tim careening off the tipping point, sinking into the deep end. He whirls around and lunges, a snarl in his throat and the call for violence humming in his blood as he pins the Archivist against the wall, hears the painful smack of his body meeting brick. 

"Don't you dare say that, not to me," Tim hisses, feeling the power rush through his body, a buzzing noise filling his head as the Archivist stares at him. He makes no move to escape, and Tim can feel how frail he is, how ridiculously small and how easy it would be to shatter him, piece by piece-

"You think I want you to care? I don't want anything to do with you, I don't want to ever hear from you again, I am done with you and this supernatural shitshow. All I want-" 

And he can no longer speak, all the abuse he has yet to say caught up in his throat, as his grip around the Archivist's wrists tighten all the more. There is nothing he can say, no one he can threaten, to fix the mess that is his life, mend the relationships that unravelled on his rebellious quest for nothingness, for oblivion and the end. Anger races through his body, and has nowhere to go. 

Danny is dead. 

Sasha is dead. 

Tim is alive, and Jon is alive. 

(He would have traded both their lives for Sasha and Danny in a heartbeat, even though his own life doesn't seem to be worth anything.)

Jon must see the moment that Tim lets himself fall apart, must recognize in the instant before Tim releases him, and sinks to the ground, that he cannot hurt Jon any more than he can find it in himself to swallow a bottle of pills and go to sleep. The worthlessness of a death like that, of the violence of a fight aborted, keeps Tim alive, and Jon in one piece. 

"Tim," Jon says quietly, dropping to his knees beside him. 

This time, the noises he lets fall from his lips are sobs. 

He shakes as his hands and knees meet the pavement, and he cries as hesitant arms reach around him, hold him.

"I don't forgive you," he says between sobs, as Jon sits with him on the dirty ground, holds him in hands that are just a little too scarred, a little too thin and bony. 

"I know," he responds simply, without any malice or overt sympathy. Pure, simple truth. Tim craves that, craves the clarity Jon's words bring.

* * *

Later, he remembers this moment in the split second before his thumb presses down on the trigger. He remembers the feeling of Jon's arms around him, the acknowledgement of their mistakes, and the mistakes that they would likely keep making. 

That Jon would likely keep making, now that Tim wasn't going to be around for it. 

The monster/avatar that took his brother away snarls, curses at him. But Tim is all too calm now, filled with the knowledge of the choice he's about to make. 

His thumb rests lightly on the detonator, as he looks away from Nikola to meet eyes with Jon. 

_"Jon. I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can...then I don't forgive you. But thank you for this."_

The detonator clicks.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, kudos and comments make my day. If there was anything Not Right here, please let me know, I always want to improve.


End file.
